Scenes From a Honeymoon
by allthingsdecent
Summary: The title says it all. It would help to have read Don't Let Go.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note: Okay, so I literally have no idea how to write this honeymoon fic. But there has been an uprising among my readers so I feel obliged. My solution? Totally letting myself off the hook with this "scenes" concept (meaning: I have no actual story plan.) But I thought this first night was kinda cute. Eventually, I suppose they'll have real conversations about adopting Rachel and Cuddy's cold feet and shit like that, but for now just sexyfuntimes.**

Walter, who worked the night shift at the Beltway Roadside Inn, rubbed his eyes and blinked.

What stood before him looked like a pair of escapees from a punk rock costume party: A woman—a total MILF, by the way—wearing a soiled and shredded wedding dress and combat boots and a tall guy with a cane in a heavy leather jacket, loosened bowtie, and tuxedo pants.

They were holding hands and seemed to be in obnoxiously good moods.

"Uh, can I help you?" Walter said.

"The honeymoon suite please!" the man demanded, thumping the counter.

"We don't have a honeymoon suite," Walter said, scratching his head. "This is a motel."

"Oh. . .a shame. Well in that case, your finest deluxe penthouse, with a view!"

"We have singles and doubles," Walter said.

"Is there at least turn down service?" the guy continued.

The woman laughed, swatted him.

"House, leave the kid alone," she said.

"Do you want the room or what?" Walter said wearily. He was tired and stoned and all of this merriment was beginning to work his last nerve.

"I assume you accept Platinum American Express reward points?" House said.

Walter shrugged.

"No. . .just cash and regular credit cards."

"He's kidding," the woman said, giving House a tight hug. "_Always_."

House looked down at her adoringly.

"Not _always_," he said.

They kissed—a "get a room" kind of kiss. Which, of course, was exactly what they were doing.

"How many nights?" Walter said, impatiently.

"Lovey, should we summer here the whole month?" House said, in an affected British accent.

"One night," the MILF said to Walter. "And we'll take a double."

"Also, we'll need a wakeup call tomorrow morning," House added.

"What time?" Walter said.

House looked up, surprised.

"Wait. You actually _do _wake-up calls?"

"Yeah. It's an automated system," Walter said.

"Nevermind then. We are vagabonds, living off the road, without a plan in sight. Wakeup calls are for insurance salesmen, corporate drones, and other tools of The Man."

Walter nodded. At last, a point of agreement.

"Right on, bro," he said, and made the rock and roll devil horn sign.

House made it in return and they nodded at each other in solidarity.

The couple paid for the room and, laughing, headed down the hall.

_That guy is so getting laid tonight_, Walter thought jealously, watching them rush away.

########

When they got to the room—a cramped, dark space with heavy curtains, wood-paneling, and an unintentionally ironic Rembrandt reproduction over the bed—Cuddy continued with the game.

"I do believe that William and Kate also honeymooned here," she said.

But House folded his arms in dismay.

"This will not do," he said. "Not at all. BRB."

And he left.

He was back 30 minutes later with a plastic bag from a nearby convenience store.

Cuddy was on the bed, with wet hair, in a robe.

"Hey, you got clean without me," he pouted. "Not fair."

"House, we both know that when we shower together, not a lot of 'showering' goes on, if you know what I mean."

She peered at the bag. "Whatya got there?"

"A few accoutrements I picked up to convert this plain old room into a room fit for my new bride," he said.

He reached into the bag, magician-style, and pulled out a six-pack of beer and two red Solo cups.

"They had no champagne, but I've been told Miller is the champagne of beers," he said, opening the bottles on his belt buckle and pouring the frothy liquid.

"Ewwww," Cuddy said, but she took a cup from him.

They clicked glasses and drank.

"And they had no rose petals to scatter across the bed, so I got these"—he reached into the bag and grabbed a packet of Red Hots candies, which he proceeded to toss onto the bed.

"If I end up with Red Hots in my crotch, I know who to blame," Cuddy said.

"Oooh, kinky," he said, raising his eyebrows at her.

He reached into the bag again.

"And to work up our appetite for the Red Hots—which also is my new nickname for you, by the way—" he pulled out a small bag of marijuana, with rolling papers, and a lighter.

"House!" she said scoldingly. "Where did you get that?"

"I bought it off Walter," House said. "He looked so comfortably numb before . . ."

Cuddy wrinkled her nose.

"I haven't smoked weed since college," she said.

"Ha ha. You said _weed_," House said. He dropped the baggie back in the bag. "But actually, I was just kidding. This is not for tonight. It's for when we get to the Grand Canyon."

"We're going to the Grand Canyon?"

"All road trips must eventually lead to the Grand Canyon," House said.

"House. . .that's 2000 miles away."

"What part of _cross-country_ road trip didn't you understand?"

"The part where we only have a week off from work. We'll see, okay?"

"Okay," he said. "And finally . . .they had no candles for romantic mood lighting, so I got these!"

Two sparklers, which he proceeded to light. The flames snapped and crackled in his hands.

He handed her one.

"House! That's a fire hazard!" she yelped, handing it back to him.

"But very celebratory," he said.

"Go in the bathroom and put them out. And run water on them. . . Those weren't the kind of fireworks I had in mind for tonight."

"Say no more. You had me at fireworks," he said, limping quickly into the bathroom.

He ran water over the sparklers. The sink filled with smoke and black ash.

He came back into the room.

"I just remembered that you're naked under that robe," he said, grinning at her.

"That's generally how it works," she said.

He stood in front of her, slowly untied the robe. It dropped on the bed.

He gazed at her, his face slack with desire.

"You're so fucking gorgeous," he said, sitting down on the bed, kissing her neck, fondling her.

"House, you're so dirty. . ."

"Oh, you ain't seen nothing yet," he said, patting his lap.

Rolling her eyes, but smiling, she slid onto his lap, straddled him.

"Much better," he said, pulling her toward him.

"I'm actually sort of turned by the feel of your leather jacket against my skin," she whispered in his ear.

"Aaaaand. . . I just came," he said.

######


	2. Chapter 2

"You awake? You awake? You awake?"

House was lying next to Cuddy on her pillow, chanting in her ear.

She opened her eyes. His face was so close to hers, it was out of focus.

"What time is it?" she said.

House looked at his watch. "5:30," he said.

"Nooooo! 5:30 isn't actually the morning yet," she groaned, pulling her pillow out from under him and folding it over her head. "It's still night. Go back to bed."

"'Back to bed' implies I fell asleep to begin with. Which I didn't," House said. "I'm antsy. I want to hit the open road with my new bride."

"Your new bride needs her beauty sleep. . .you kept her very busy last night," Cuddy said, edging away from him. "Two more hours."

"But the open road will be much less open then," House said.

He pulled the pillow away from her ear.

"Pleeeeease."

She opened one eye—peered at him.

"You're worse than Rachel," she said.

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"Alright, we can leave now. As long as we stop at a Starbucks first."

"Ha, this is the town that Starbucks forgot. But the convenience store next door had some fresh coffee. And by 'fresh' I mean, no more than a day or two old."

She rubbed her eyes, sat up.

"Ugh," she said.

He began vigorously rubbing her shoulders and her arms, an attempt to get her blood circulating.

She tilted her head back and looked up at him.

"Good morning, Mr. Cuddy," she said sleepily.

"Good morning, Mrs. House," he said.

They kissed.

He pulled her on top of him, then started kissing her with more feeling. He began to reach under her nightie.

"Wait," she said. "Which is it? Sex or the open road?"

"Sex," he said, in that familiar voice. He had completely forgotten about his master plan.

"Nope!" she said, popping up. "You got me up at this ungodly hour. We are definitely hitting the road."

She walked purposefully to the bathroom.

"Why do you have to listen to me all the time?" he moaned.

#######

When House told Cuddy that his dream honeymoon was a road trip on his bike, her first instinct was to say no.

They'd been together for over a year and she'd managed to studiously avoid getting on that thing. (She had used "I'm a mother" as an excuse, but the truth was, she was a bit afraid of it.)

But she figured that House getting married—in a traditional ceremony, no less—was as far out of his comfort zone as getting on that bike would be out of hers.

Besides, she had promised. ("Whatever you want," she had said, not "whatever you want that also completely suits my tastes and desires.")

So she said yes.

"Really?" he had said.

And he looked so surprised and boyishly happy, there was no way she could possibly back down.

In preparation for their big trip, he had bought her a pair of black motorcycle boots, a silver helmet, and a black leather jacket (which was currently taking up valuable space in her duffel bag.)

She had felt ridiculously out of place at those biker stores—surrounded by all those hard-looking women with their tattoos and sneers. They looked at her like she was some sort of corporate Barbie from hell.

But they knew House, and he spoke their language of intake valves and accelerator pumps and when he said that she was his fiancée and she was going on her first cross-country bike trip with him, they changed their tune and were actually kind of nice.

"You're going to have the time of your life, honey," one of the employees assured to her.

They practiced a few times, on back roads and side streets, until she felt comfortable enough to venture onto the highway. The truth was, she felt completely safe on the back of House's bike. For all his flaws, one of the things she liked best about House was his extreme competence. Everything he did, he did well.

There was the pesky little question of the wedding dress. House thought it was hot to just peel off in their wedding attire—but then what? The dress certainly got chewed up on the way to the motel, but she didn't want to junk it. It meant something to her. (She'd never forget House's reaction when he first saw her it in. He stared, slack-jawed for a moment, and then said, "I _knew_ there was a reason I signed up for this traditional wedding thing.") So they decided to pay Walter $100 to ship it back to New Jersey.

"He's a very trustworthy stoner," House assured her. (Cuddy was hardly convinced, but didn't really have much choice.)

Anyway, House was right about the roads: They were empty at this time in the morning. Cuddy held tightly onto his waist, enjoying the exhilarating sensation of the wind on her face as they zoomed down the road.

But it occurred to her they were zooming a little too fast. He was gunning the engine, and tilting toward the road to reduce wind resistance.

"House, slow down!" she shouted.

"What?" he said cheerfully. "I can't hear you!"  
>He knew damn well what she'd just said.<p>

"You're going over 90. We're going to get pulled over!" she said.

"There's not a car on the road, baby!" he said. "We're freeeeeee!"

And, as if on cue, they heard a siren behind them. A Pennsylvania state trooper.

"Shit," House muttered.

He pulled over.

"I'm not going to say I told you so," Cuddy said, pissed.

"You just did," House said.

They sat there in awkward silence, waiting for the trooper to approach.

He looked like something out of central casting. Tall, with ramrod-straight posture, a mustache, in a tan uniform, with a wide-rimmed hat tilted low over his eyes.

"Do you know why I pulled you over, sir?" he said.

"Because you want a ride?" House said.

"You were going 90 in a 65 zone."

"Damn! I thought I was going faster."

Cuddy shook her head. _Don't do this House_, she thought. _Don't do this_.

But who was she trying to kid? He was House. Of course he was going to do this.

"Are you trying to be funny?" the cop said.

"Are you trying to look like the missing member of The Village People?"

"90 miles per hour is a hazard to the public safety."

"I would agree. If there was any public to keep safe. This road, however, is COMPLETELY EMPTY. You've been sitting here with your little speed gun for, what, six hours?—just waiting for some poor sucker to drive by."

"I'm going to have to ask for your license and registration, sir. And for you to get off the bike," the cop said.

House reached into his wallet, handed the cop his papers.

"Okay, I'm sorry," he said. "I've vented my spleen. No hard feelings. Just give me my ticket and we can part as the best of friends."

"Take off your helmet and step away from the vehicle, sir," the cop said.

House gave a dramatic sigh and got off the bike. Cuddy hopped off too.

"Remind me to _kill you_ later," she hissed at him.

"Hold out your arms," the cop said to House.

House rolled his eyes, obeyed.

The cop began to pat him down. When he got to House's jean pocket, he said, "What's that?"

"Nothing. I'm just happy to see you."

"Please remove that from your pocket, sir," the cop said.

House gave Cuddy a slightly freaked out look.

He pulled the object from his pocket—the baggie of pot.

"Is that marijuana sir?"

"It's oregano. I'm a chef."

"Don't be cute," the cop said.

"Yes, it's marijuana. _Medical_ marijuana. We're doctors. It's for a glaucoma patient."

"Oh really? Where's the prescription for it?"

"I left my prescription pad in the hospital. But I assure you, it's completely legitimate."

"You really think I was born yesterday, don't you? Guess what, friend: Speeding, plus possession, plus insubordinate conduct toward an officer—"

"That's not really a thing, is it?" House interjected. "You just made that up."

"Equals you get to spend the day in the police station," the cop said.

"Wait!" Cuddy said, loudly.

Both House and the cop looked at her—surprised.

"Officer, I want to apologize for my husband," she said.

"You're _married_ to this guy?" the cop said.

"We're newlyweds," Cuddy said, smiling sweetly. "We're actually on our honeymoon."

"My apologies, ma'am."

"Good one," House said, with a too-loud snort.

"My husband has an issue with authority. Ironic, since I'm also his boss."

"It just so happens that some authority figures turn me on," House said.

The cop gave him a look.

"Wait, that came out wrong," House said.

"Anyway, I know it's a lot to ask," Cuddy continued. "And you've been _exceedingly_ patient so far. But if you could please just find it in your heart to let us go with a ticket and a warning. My husband is stubborn, it's true." She looked at House. "_Very_ stubborn. But he's right about the pot being for medicinal reasons—just not for a glaucoma patient. It's for him. For his leg. He's disabled."

"He doesn't look disabled to me," the cop said skeptically.

House jerked his head toward his cane, which was fastened to the side of the bike.

"That cane is not for my Fred Astaire impression," he said. "Also, you'll note that I've got handicapped tags."

The cop looked at the tags, saw that House was right.

"And your wife's not just lying to save your skin?" the cop said. "The marijuana is for your leg pain?

"Yes sir," House said.

"Why didn't you just say so before?"

"Male pride," Cuddy interjected, before House could respond.

"And you're really on your honeymoon?"

"We just got married yesterday," House said. "It was a lovely ceremony—well, except for the part where she ditched me at the altar. But besides that. . ."

The cop folded his arms.

"It so happens that I just got back from my own honeymoon," he said, a tiny trace of a smile playing at his lips. "So you're lucky I'm in such a forgiving mood. And you're even luckier that your wife is actually a decent human being. I'm going to let you off with just a ticket, Dr. House. As for the marijuana: Maybe it's for your leg pain and maybe it isn't. But let's just pretend I never saw it, okay?"

"Deal," House said.

"Thank you, officer," Cuddy said, breathing a sigh of relief.

As the trooper walked back to his car to write up the ticket, House mouthed to Cuddy: "My hero."

"You're so dead," she mouthed back.

######

They stopped at a roadside diner just before they crossed into Ohio. (House dutifully drove the speed limit the entire way there.)

House ordered a burger and fries and a vanilla milkshake.

Cuddy got an egg and cheese sandwich on whole wheat toast and black coffee.

"Are you speaking to me yet?" House asked.

"No," she said.

"You were amazing out there," he said. "I mean, that was beyond impressive. Somehow we managed to only get a ticket _and _keep the pot. One day they will write epic poems about your heroics."

"No thanks to you," she said.

"We make a great team," he said.

"If by 'great team' you mean, you screw up and I jump through hoops to get you out of trouble, then yes, we do make a great team."

"That's exactly what I mean," he said, grinning at her. "Sometimes I think I just like getting in trouble to see how you'll work your magic to get me out of it."

"Not funny, House," she said sulkily—but she was softening a bit.

"I'm serious."

"Really House. What _is_ your problem with cops? I would've thought that after your run-in with Tritter, you'd have learned your lesson."

"Not sure," House said thoughtfully. "But I suspect a psychiatrist might say it has something to do with my father."

"Admit it. You just hate being told what to do."

"It depends on who's doing the telling," he said, raising his eyebrows.

"Then let me tell you this: We are staying at a real hotel tonight. Got it?

"Got it."

"With room service and fluffy robes and pay-per-view."

"Ooooh, pay per view. I like the way you think."

"To watch a British period drama," she said. "Something with petticoats and simmering, unconsummated sexual tension and talking. Lots and lots of talking."

House frowned.

"I can never understand a word that they're saying in those things."

"And then you're giving me a massage."

"Again, I say, I like the way you think."

"Strictly therapeutic. And you're drawing me a bath."

"Wait? This is supposed to be my _punishment_?"

"That I'm taking _alone_," she said.

"We'll see about that," he replied cockily.

"And then after all that, I'd say about four years into our marriage, I will consider forgiving you for nearly _getting us arrested_ on our honeymoon."

"Sounds completely fair."

He smiled at her.

"Now give me a sip of your milkshake," she said.


	3. Chapter 3

"We're lost," Cuddy said.

"You can't be lost when you're not going any place in particular," House countered.

"Yeah, but you should at least know what _state_ you're in."

"I _do_ know what state we're in," House said. "We're in, uh, Indiana."

"Once more with feeling," she snorted.

"Definitely Indiana," he said, feigning confidence.

"Then why have we pulled off to the side of the road and why are you looking at your cell phone?"

"Checking my messages."

"Bullshit, House. The only person who ever texts you is me. Admit it, you're looking at your GPS and we're totally lost."

"I admit no such thing," House said, hastily closing his phone before she could notice that he had just opened his GPS.

"And why aren't we on the main road anymore?" Cuddy said.

"Side streets have more mystery," House said.

"Yeah. A little _too _much mystery if you ask me. This road is pitch black. It feels very opening-scene-in-a-horror-film-ish."

"Don't worry, I'll protect you."

"How, by _insulting_ the axe-murderer to death?"

"I'm hurt, Cuddy."

"Awww, poor baby," she said, cooing. "I know you will use brute strength to overpower the evil chainsaw killer that is lurking in the shadows."

"Thank you," House said.

"But in the meantime, it's past 11 pm. I'm exhausted. What are the odds we can find a Holiday Inn nearby?"

"I'm sure there's one in a few miles," House said skeptically, putting his helmet back on. "Let's get moving."

About ten miles later, though, there was no sign of any hotels—or any human life for that matter. That is, until they came across a Victorian-style house with a wraparound porch and a sign out front that read: Gideon's Bed and Breakfast."

"Thank God," Cuddy said.

"You don't actually want to stay here?" House said, incredulously.

"Why not? It's a bed and breakfast. Which by very definition means it has beds—and breakfast!"

"But you know I hate bed and breakfasts," House moaned. "They tend to be owned by overly chatty couples who hug complete strangers and call each other 'Mother' and 'Father.'"

"It's quaint," Cuddy said.

"I'm allergic to quaint," House said.

"I'm exhausted," she said more firmly. "And we're lost. This bed and breakfast is, like, a gift from the road trip gods."

House sighed.

"Okay, but don't blame me if you find yourself exchanging recipes for ambrosia or getting coached on needlepoint technique by the owner."

They walked up to the front door. It was completely dark.

"I hope we don't wake everybody up," Cuddy said, peering through the window.

"Only one way to find out," House said.

He knocked, loudly.

They waited a long time. Then he knocked again.

"Oh well, inn's closed," House said, with a shrug.

But just as they were about to walk away, an old woman came to the door—she was wearing a robe. She had short, whitish-gray hair, and rosy, crêpey cheeks, and a warm, if tired, face.

"Hello, can I help you?" she said.

"We'd like a room," Cuddy said. "If one's available."

The woman smiled.

"You're in luck. I have one room left. Come on in."

She gave them both a huge hug in greeting.

Cuddy beamed at House, who frowned and followed them inside.

It was your classic inn type décor—overstuffed chairs and faded rugs and bookshelves teeming with popular novels. A golden retriever lay on a dog bed in the living room, snoring. He didn't bother looking up.

"You have a lovely home," Cuddy said, looking around.

"This must be the finest inn in all of _Indiana_," House said, waiting expectantly for her response.

"Why thank you," the woman said. And House gave a smug, "I told you so" look to Cuddy.

"My name's Cora, by the way," she continued. She sized House and Cuddy up. "Let me guess: Newlyweds, right?"

Cuddy smiled, pleased. "How could you tell?"

"I get a lot of newlyweds around here. They have a certain glow, especially the grooms."

"That's actually sweat," House said. "It gets hot on that bike."

"Awwwww," Cuddy mouthed to House. "You're glowing."

He rolled his eyes.

"I used to run this inn with my husband Bart," Cora was saying. "But he passed two years ago."

"I'm sorry," Cuddy said. "That must be hard."

"That's okay. I manage without him. Don't I, Father?"

Cuddy and House exchanged a look.

"Father?" House said. "Your _father_ works here?"

"Oh no, that's just what I used to call my Bart. And he called me Mother. We have 7 children and 24 grandchildren."

"How wonderful for you," Cuddy said.

"But you just told us that Bart is dead," House said.

Cuddy kicked him.

"Yes, he's dead—but not gone to the other side yet. He stays here. Watches over me and the guests. In fact, lots of the guests have seen him. But don't worry, he's a friendly ghost."

"What a relief," House said, but Cora didn't pick up on his sarcasm.

"I should warn you, though," Cora said, in a hushed voice. "We have _two_ ghosts in this inn. In fact, it makes us a bit a local landmark."

"I'm not paying extra for a second ghost," House said.

"The other ghost is Gideon, the inn's first owner—and the room you two are staying in used to be his."

"You've got to be kidding," Cuddy said.

Unlike House, she was slightly disturbed by this development.

"He's not quite as nice as my Bart, but he's relatively harmless. Most people report spending the night without incident."

Cuddy looked at House.

"Maybe we should . . . find another place to stay," she said, biting her lip.

House looked at her—first shocked, then inordinately pleased by her obvious trepidation.

"We'll take it!" he said merrily.

######

When they got to the room, House burst out laughing.

"I cannot believe you're afraid of ghosts," he said

"I'm not," Cuddy said, defensively. "I mean, not _actively_. But I don't, you know, _go out of my way_ to stay in places that are supposedly haunted."

"Why not? Either you believe in ghosts or you don't."

"I don't," Cuddy said.

She looked around the room.

"It's kinda nice," she said, tentatively.

"Do you think Gideon is already on the bed?" House said, bouncing on it.

"Stop it. Don't tease me. And don't try to scare the shit out of me tonight, because it's not funny."

"Now does that sound like the kind of thing I would do?" House said, grinning.

"I'm serious," she said.

He walked up to her, kissed her. "I promise not to scare the shit out you, okay? It's just that I thought you were a woman of science and reason."

"I _am_ a woman of science and reason."

"Huh," he said. "Anything else I should know about you? Do you also believe in zombies? Vampires? Deepak Chopra?"

"Shut up, House."

He smiled at her.

"Now I'm going to take a quick shower," he said. "Are you sure you'll be okay out here on your own?"

"I'm fine," she said pouting a bit.

A few minutes later, House emerged from bathroom wearing nothing but pajama bottoms and drying his hair with a towel.

Cuddy looked at him.

"Why did you open that window?" she said. "It's freezing in here."

He frowned.

"How could I have opened the window? I've been in the shower."

"House, that window was closed when we first got here and now it's open."

"Well, I didn't open it," he said.

"Neither did I."

"Then who did?"

Cuddy raised her eyebrows.

"What?" House said. "You think _Gideon_ opened it?"

She shrugged.

"I don't know."

She started taking her nightie out of her duffel bag. All of a sudden, the TV came on—loudly.

"House, I don't want to watch TV!" Cuddy said.

He looked at her.

"I didn't turn it on" he said. "I'm halfway across the room. Do you see a remote control in my hand?"

"So . . .how did the TV just come on?" Cuddy said, looking a little freaked out.

"Maybe Gideon is a fan of Friends. I think this is the episode where Rachel and Ross finally do it."

"I'm serious, House."

"I dunno. Maybe it's on a timer? Or maybe it was some sort of electrical surge. Whatever. Just turn it off."

She turned off the TV, put on her nightie, climbed into bed.

A few minutes later, the TV came back on again.

"Wow. Gideon must really love Friends," House said.

"House, if you're messing with me—I swear. "

"I'm not messing with you," House said. He limped up to the TV, turned it off himself. But he did bother to peer at the set, to see if there was any obvious sign of a timer.

"You sure you're not accidentally sitting on the remote?" he said.

"There was no remote," Cuddy said.

"That's it. This room is definitely haunted."

"Did you just feel that?" Cuddy whispered.

"Feel what?"

"That chill. I just felt a kind of eerie chill go through my whole body."

House gave her a look.

"The window was just open," he said.

"No. It wasn't a chill like that. It was like, my hairs were standing up on end."

"Cuddy… you're joking," he said.

"I'm serious."

She gasped. "I just felt it again."

"You're having a panic attack. Remember that conversion disorder?"

"A panic attack that causes windows to open, TVs to come on, and chills to run down my spine?" she said, annoyed.

"C'mere," he said, holding out his arms. "I'll keep you warm. And safe from Gideon—the sitcom loving ghost."

"Don't tease me," she said.

Moments later, there was a banging sound—it sounded like someone with very heavy footsteps was dragging a chain.

"Do you hear that?" Cuddy said.

"Yeah, I do," House said, furrowing his brow.

"House, let's get out of here. I admit it, I'm freaked out."

"It's probably just old pipes," House said, looking up.

"You sure?" Cuddy said.

"I'm sure," House said, skeptically.

"Okay, because now _I _want to take a shower but I'm afraid to go to the bathroom," Cuddy said. "Can you go in there and check to make sure it's safe?"

House shook his head and laughed, but this time in a somewhat more understanding way.

"Okay," he said.

"Check the whole bathroom," she said.

"Not a bar of soap will go uninspected," he said.

He limped into the bathroom, gamely looked around. He looked under the sink, he looked in the shower, he looked behind the door. But when he went to look in the medicine cabinet, a figure popped up from behind him in the mirror.

He jumped a mile and let out a little shriek.

"Gotcha!" Cuddy said, triumphantly.

"Jesus woman," he said. "You scared the shit out of me."

"Exactly. Because you _are_ afraid of ghosts."

"No, because you startled me," he said. "That's hardly evidence that I'm afraid of ghosts."

"You turned white," she said. "And you screamed."

"That was not a scream," he said. "That was a tiny, manly yelp."

But now he was laughing a bit, too.

"So that was all you?" he said. "The window. The TV? The banging?"

"All me," she said proudly.

"Okay, so the window you opened when I was taking a shower. But the TV?"

"I hid the remote control in my duffel bag," she admitted.

"The chill you obviously faked. Excellent performance by the way," he said.

Cuddy bowed theatrically.

"But the banging? The dragging of the chains?"

"Haunted House app on my iPhone," she said. "Surprisingly lifelike."

"You evil creature you," he said, grabbing her and picking her up.

"House, your leg!" she said, screaming.

"Upper body strength, baby!" he said.

He carried her into the room, threw her onto the bed and landed on top of her. Then he started tickling her.

"House, stop!" she said, giggling uncontrollably.

"Admit it, I'm not afraid of ghosts!" he demanded.

"You're not afraid of ghosts. . ._much_!" she said.

"Not at all!" he said.

"I thought you were a man of reason and science," she said, laughing uncontrollably.

"I am! Say it! Say I'm not afraid of ghosts."

"Okay, okay. . .you're not afraid of ghosts," she said.

"Thank you," he said, kissing her.

Her body relaxed under him. She wrapped her arms around him, kissed him back.

"That was very sweet of you to check the bathroom for me," she said.

"You are such a little minx," he said.

"How are you going to punish me?" she whispered.

"I'll think of something," he said, wiggling out of his pajama bottoms and turning out the light. "Gideon, close your eyes."


	4. Chapter 4

On the final full day of their honeymoon, Cuddy woke up in a luxury suite in Chicago, stretched extravagantly on the king size bed, and went to go to the bathroom.

But before she could leave the bed, House grabbed her in a tight bear hug.

"Hey, let go!" she said. "I gotta pee."

"Sorry, you can't leave this bed," he insisted. "You're my prisoner."

She turned to face him, then smiled in an understanding sort of way.

"I know," she said softly. "I don't want it to end either."

She gave him a light kiss on the lips.

"Then let's stay another week," he said—he loosened his grip on her a bit, but not enough so that she could actually get off the bed. "We never even made it to the Grand Canyon."

"That'll be our next vacation," she promised. "We can bring Rachel."

"That's going to be tough with the motorcycle," House said musingly. "Although I suppose she could ride in the sidecar."

Cuddy shot him a look.

"Just kidding," he said. "_You_ would ride the sidecar."

"I was thinking more along the lines of she'd get the window seat, I'd get the aisle and you could sit between us!"

"Is the mile high club part of this arrangement?" House said, nuzzling her.

"Yeah, and Rachel can just live off her wits while we're having a quickie in an airplane bathroom."

"That's why they have flight attendants," House said, grinning.

He pulled her closer.

"Just two more days, okay?" he whined. "_Pleeeease._"

"I wish we could. . .but I can't. Rachel needs me. The hospital needs me."

"I need you."

"You've already got me."

House gave a slightly conciliatory shrug.

"Let's not focus on the fact that it's ending, okay?" she said, resting her chin on his chest. "Let's focus on making today great. What do you want to do? Stalk some vintage record stores? Find the longest hot dog in Chicago? Visit that German U-Boat you were reading about?"

House looked at her.

"I was thinking more along the lines of the Art Institute of Chicago, buying you a dress at Barney's, and dinner at Fig + Bone."

She couldn't tell if he was teasing her or not.

"Don't mess with me, House."

"I'm not."

"House, we can't get a reservation at Fig + Bone. They're booked for months."

"We already have reservations for tonight at 8. I called in a favor," House said.

"You have Chicago _favors_? That you can _call in_?"

House shrugged in a "it's probably best we don't talk about it" sort of way.

"Are you sure this is how you want to spend our last vacation day together?" she said.

"Absolutely," he said, sincerely. "But in the sprit of 'three for you, one for me'—we're catching a late set at Blues Alley after dinner."

"Deal!" she said.

"Deal," he said, inordinately proud of himself.

######

It was a Van Gogh exhibit at the Art Institute of Chicago and Cuddy expected House to be mopily tagging along, playing Angry Birds on his phone, and citing examples of 5-year-old finger painters who fooled the alleged art experts.

Instead, he was surprisingly engaged in the art, looking at it closely and even rattling off some arcane bits of Van Gogh trivia.

"You know he got fired from his first art gallery because he couldn't stand the commodification of art," House said, peering at _The Red Vineyard_. "Probably an ill-advised stance to take when you work at an art gallery."

Cuddy chuckled.

They kept walking, were now standing in front of _Nude Woman Reclining._ The woman in the picture was lying back, in a possibly post-coital way, her hand behind her head, wearing knee socks, looking deliciously ripe and sated.

"The pastor at the local church forbade the parishioners from posing for him because he was always _doing it_ with his models," House said, admiringly.

Cuddy hit him.

"I'm just sayin'. . ."

The next painting was the desolate looking _Still Life With Bandaged Ear._

House stared at Van Gogh's pained but resolute face.

"They never found the gun, you know," he said quietly, almost to himself. "Everyone assumes he offed himself but. . ."

"How come you know so much about Vincent Van Gogh?" Cuddy said. She shouldn't have really been surprised. House knew a lot about a lot—but there seemed to be a particular level of interest here.

"I don't know. He's just always fascinated me, I guess," House said cautiously.

"Because he's a fellow tortured genius?" Cuddy said.

"Who's tortured?" he said, taking her hand.

######

At Barney's, Cuddy tried on a bunch of dresses, while House waited just outside the dressing room in a velvet chair that was designed to make dutiful husbands at least comfortable while they were bored to tears.

Cuddy tried on the first dress—a white linen number with spaghetti straps.

"Oooh, that looks great!" the saleswoman said. "Should we show your husband?"

"If my calculations are correct, he's already sound asleep," Cuddy said. She poked her head out of the dressing room. Sure enough, House was sitting on the chair with a book over his face, dozing.

"Why don't we narrow it down to our top two and wake him up then?"

In the end, they settled upon a skin tight black dress with a loose neck that gathered low around her chest, revealing lots of cleavage and a more fashion-forward, cream-colored Fendi shift dress.

But Cuddy miscalculated and led with the black dress.

"Hey Rip Van Winkle, what do you think?" she said, tapping him lightly on the arm.

He woke up, the book fell from his face, and he blinked at her.

"Am I dreaming?" he said, rubbing his eyes.

"You like?" she said, suddenly feeling a little shy.

"Yes please," he said.

"You don't think it's a little too. . .slutty?"  
>"No such thing as too slutty," he said.<p>

"I have one more dress to show you," she said.

"That won't be necessary."

Cuddy shook her head. She _knew_ she should've led with the Fendi.

"We'll take it," she said to the saleswoman.

#####

She managed to drag House to the men's department to buy him a steel gray John Varvatos shirt that made his eyes look even more insanely blue and a pair of black trousers.

He was already fully dressed that night, when she came out of the bathroom, wearing just a towel.

He was sitting at the suite's desk, looking very busy.

"Whadya got there?" Cuddy said, peering over his shoulder.

"Walter's gift to humanity," he said, licking the rolling paper and tightly rolling the joint shut. "Wanna light up?"

"We can't!" Cuddy said. "First of all, there's no smoking in the room"

"We can smoke on the balcony. . ."

"And second of all, we're about to go to a really fancy restaurant. I can't be . . . high!"

"Frankly, I can't think of a better place to be high. I need to be somewhat blunted to deal with all that extreme pretentiousness."

Cuddy wrinkled her nose.

"I don't think I should. . ."

"Suit yourself," House said casually. "More for me."

She watched him walk out to the hotel balcony, light the joint with a lighter and slowly breathe it in. He held the joint toward her, in a beckoning way.

_Oh fuck it_, she thought.

She slid open the heavy door and joined him outside.

"Okay, one hit," she said.

"Atta girl," he said.

He handed her the joint and she took a tentative puff.

"Seriously Cuddy? The idea is to get it _in_ your lungs."

She made a face, then inhaled deeply, and coughed as the smoke stung her chest.

He smiled at her, took the joint from her fingers and took another hit. Then he inhaled again.

"Gimme," she said.

"You're such a little stoner," he said, handing it to her, and grinning.

#####

One thing House hadn't quite calculated: He was much bigger than Cuddy—not to mention something of an experienced drug user. For him, a few hits off a joint merely took the edge off.

But Cuddy was sky high.

This became instantly clear when they sat down for dinner at Fig + Bone.

"Ohmygod, poached lobster soup with heavy cream and Meyer-lemon," she said. "That sounds amazing. Do you think I should get two?"

He rested his chin in his hand, smiled at her.

"I think one will suffice."

The waiter came over.

"My name is Lucas, I'll be your server tonight," he said.

Cuddy burst out laughing.

"Bwah! Lucas!" she said.

House covered his mouth with his hand so the waiter couldn't see him laughing.

"Don't be surprised if I break up with you halfway through dinner," Cuddy said to the waiter, with a snort.

Lucas gave House a questioning look.

"Low blood sugar," House explained. "She probably just needs some bread."

"I would like to discuss the dessert with you first," Cuddy said, all business. "This chocolate soufflé. . . do we need to order it in advance?"

"No ma'am," he said.

"Good. And there's no chance the chef is going to run out. Because if so, I'd like to start with dessert first."

"I'll be sure to put an order aside for you," Lucas said. "Would you like to hear tonight's specials?"

"Bring it," Cuddy said, satisfied that she would be getting her soufflé.

"We are featuring chestnut veal heart with quince, sumac, and burning leaves,"

"The problem is, that entrée wasn't pretentious enough," Cuddy said.

"Also, uh, wooly pig with fennel and orange and squid."

"_Wooly _pig?" Cuddy said. "Wooly pig? Do you at least shave it first?"

Lucas cleared his throat.

"That bread?" House said, beseechingly.

"Right."

Lucas nodded smartly, scurried off.

Cuddy tilted her head, watching him walk away.

"Do you think he's bad in bed, too?" she said.

######

By the time they got to Blue's Alley, she was the perfect level of high, at least as far as House was concerned: Not so stoned as to embarrass herself (he personally loved Cuddy with no inhibitions, but knew she would regret her behavior in the morning)—but loose enough to be a little more "handsy" at the table.

They were sitting at a round table close to the small stage, watching the jazz combo tuck into their final set, and she was draped all over him.

She looked amazingly stunning in her tight black dress—and every move she made was filled with a kind of heady sensuality to him.

"Are you having fun?" he said.

"Yeah," she said. She leaned in and kissed him, and then they kissed again, and she practically crawled onto his lap.

He was contemplating how far he could put his hands up Cuddy's skirt without violating the laws of polite society, when the waiter came over with two shots of whiskey.

"We didn't order this," House said.

"Compliments of the bartender," the waiter said.

"What for?"

"He's a softie. He likes to buy shots for newlyweds," the waiter said.

"How does everyone know we're newlyweds?" Cuddy whispered in House's ear, wrinkling her nose.

They shrugged, raised their glasses to the bartender in thanks and chugged.

After the set ended, they got up from the table to thank him personally. He was a bald guy, late 40s, with an impressively muscular build. He looked hard and a little mean. Hardly the sort of guy you would expect to be toasting new love—but you never could tell such things.

"You guys on your honeymoon?" he said.

They nodded.

"Congrats," he said. "You look real happy."

"We are," Cuddy said, squeezing House.

"I'm Frank," the bartender said, sticking out his hand.

"I'm House. This is my wife Cuddy."

"Interesting names," Frank said.

"We're Dutch," House replied.

Frank ignored him. He seemed to be sizing House up.

"You a gambling man?" he said.

"I'd say she's the gambler," House said. "She married me, didn't she?"

Frank smiled.

"No, I mean. Gambling. Cards. Poker. Me and a few of the boys have a regular Friday night game in the back, if you're interested."

House looked at Cuddy. She frowned.

"I don't know. . ." she said.

House was torn. He definitely wanted to go back to the hotel and do all sorts of dirty things to her. But a backroom poker game in a Chicago blues club? That was almost too good to pass up.

"Just one game?" he implored. "Please?"

Cuddy gave a kind of half-shrug. She was still just drunk and high enough not to realize what a truly bad idea this was.

They followed Frank to the backroom and it was exactly as House imagined it would be: Kind of dank and smoky and filled with big guys who smoked cigars and drank whiskey and rolled up the sleeves to their shirts so no one could accuse them of hiding cards.

"This is House," Frank said. "he's going to join us for a hand or two."

The guys grunted a greeting.

House took particular pleasure in knowing that they saw him as an easy mark, a patsy from New Jersey who was in way over his head and thought joining a backroom game was daring and cool.

In fact, House was a very skilled poker player—his ability to read people came in handy here (poker, after all, was merely the most obvious manifestation of his "everybody lies" theory) as did his computer of a brain, which could assess probabilities in the blink of an eye.

He rarely lost.

Cuddy sat in a chair directly behind him—if she sat anywhere else, she'd be accused of tipping him off.

"I feel like a mafia mol," she said.

"I know," he said. "It's hot."

House happily chomped on a cigar—he offered Cuddy a puff.

"I'll pass," she said, excusing herself to go the ladies room. He shrugged.

When he won the first round, they chalked it up to beginner's luck. When he won the second, they began making cracks about him being a card shark.

When he won the third hand, the smiles dissolved and they began looking at him warily.

He lost the fourth and fifth hand—on purpose.

Then he won the sixth.

As he went to slide his winnings toward him, Frank, who had been dealing, slammed his hand hard on the table.

The chips scattered and some flew onto the floor.

"I sense you're upset," House said.

"You're a cheater!"

"I am no such thing."

"You're obviously cheating. Nobody's that good. Do you take us for a bunch of morons?"

"Do you really want me to answer that?" House said.

Frank stood up from the table in a threatening way, like he was about to punch House.

"While we're on the subject, what about the chips in the pocket of _your _jacket?" House quickly countered.

Frank stopped dead in his tracks.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"I saw you put chips in your pocket."

"He's obviously just saying that to deflect blame," Frank said, looking nervously around the room.

"Oh really?" House said. He turned to one of the other players in the game—a heavyset guy with curly dark hair and a pockmarked face. "Check his pocket then."

The guy checked the pocket of Frank's jacket. Lo and behold, he pulled out 4 chips.

"Those. . . aren't mine," Frank sputtered. As all the players glared at him, their arms folded, Frank pointed at House.

"He must've put them there!" he accused.

"How? Through my amazing powers of telekinesis?" House said. "I haven't moved a muscle since we started playing."

"Then your whore must've done it. When she went to the bathroom."

House, who had been amused up until this point, suddenly turned red.

"What did you just call her?" he said.

"House," Cuddy warned, sensing things were about to get much uglier. "It's okay."

But House stood up.

"Apologize to my wife," he said.

"Not until the little whore admits what she did," Frank said.

And with that, House reared back and clocked him.

Frank staggered a bit, but immediately countered with a hard shot over House's right eye.

Meanwhile, the other guys in the game were beginning to pound on Frank for apparently stealing chips.

A little melee was breaking out, with bodies and chairs flying. A few more players were taking shots at House and he was still trying to murder Frank when suddenly, it began to . . . rain.

Cuddy was standing on a chair, holding the lighter they had used to get high up next to the smoke alarm.

It had set off the sprinkler system.

"Say hello to my little friend!" she said, gleefully.

Everyone just kind of stopped, dumbfounded and looked at her.

An alarm sounded.

"House, we're leaving—now!" she shouted, hopping off the chair.

In the confusion, the two of them were able to stumble onto the street, laughing, jump onto House's bike and ride away.

######

Back in the hotel room, House sat on a chair while she cleaned the somewhat nasty gash over his right eye.

"It's sexy, isn't it?" he said.

"It's almost deep enough for you to need me to stitch you up," she said, dabbing it with disinfectant from the hotel first aid kit.

"Ouch!" House said, wincing.

"This is going to sting," she said.

"You're supposed to say that _before_ you put it on."

"Oh yeah, right," she said. She was still a little pissed about the backroom melee, although it was somewhat mitigated by the fact that the fight had started because he was defending her honor.

Also, he did look damn sexy with that cut over his eye.

She put a bandage over his wound.

"So how did those chips get in Frank's pocket, anyway?" she said suspiciously.

"I _may_ have planted some chips in his pocket as contigency plan in case anyone accused me of cheating," House said.

"Why am I not surprised?" she said, chuckling.

He looked at her, smiled with admiration.

"What about you? Say hello to my little friend? How'd you even come up with that?"

"That _was_ pretty badass wasn't it?" she said.

"Extremely."

He went to grab her, but she backed up.

"Hold that thought," she said.

She disappeared into the bathroom for a bit and came back out still wearing the black dress—and the biker boots.

"Ohmygod, that's hot," House said.

"I believe I owe you a lap dance," Cuddy said.

"I thought I lost my lap dance privileges after my bachelor party."

"You regained them after I—_temporarily_—left you at the altar," she said.

"That _was_ emotionally scarring," he said.

He leaned back in the chair, his legs apart, and grinned in an anticipatory way.

She flipped on the radio until she got to a station that was playing smooth jazz music—Sade's No Ordinary Love—and started to dance.

She swayed soulfully in front of him, her hands caressing her own body, rocking her hips.

House watched her, swallowed hard.

Then she backed up into him, her ass nearly in his face, and slowly arched forward.

He unzipped her dress and it fell off her, onto the floor. She was wearing a black bra and black thong with garters.

"Fuck . . .me," House managed to choke out.

With her back still to him, she sat on his lap, grinding her hips tantalizingly into his pelvis.

He was already rock hard, she wasn't sure how much longer he was going to last.

He unclasped her bra, then grabbed her breasts from behind, massaging them. She swiveled on his lap so she was now facing him.

"Uh uh," she said, as he went to kiss her on the mouth. "No sex in the champagne room."

She arched her back away from him—a deep bend toward the floor.

His hand traced the taut plain of her stomach, as she undulated on his lap, swaying back and forth, grinding more deeply into him.

He was practically salivating at this point.

He went to kiss her again, but she pulled away.

"Don't worry, I heard a rumor that after this dance you're going to bang the hell out of your wife," she whispered.

House's eyes nearly popped out of his skull.

She got off his lap, and continued dancing for him, her hands moving sensuously over her body—her legs bending into a slow deep squat.

Finally, she took off her thong, threw it at him.

He caught it in the corner of his mouth, grinned, and let it dangle from his lips—like a happy dog with a bone—as he watched her dance.

The song ended.

House shook the thong from his mouth as Cuddy straddled him again, this time putting her arms around his neck and letting him grab her ass as they fell back onto the bed.

"You be Vincent Van Gogh and I'll be nude woman reclining," she said, unbuttoning his pants and kissing just below his abdomen.

"Best. Honeymoon. Ever," he said.


	5. Chapter 5

EPILOGUE

It had been the longest two days of Cuddy's life.

She was just home from her honeymoon, normally a time for a new bride to begin joyfully setting up house with her groom. But there was one rather nagging problem: She had no groom.

In her infinite wisdom, Cuddy had decided it would be best for House to ride his bike back from Chicago while she took an early flight home. (House could afford to be away from the hospital and Rachel for a few extra days, she reasoned. She couldn't.)

House had argued, cajoled, pleaded—and finally relented.

Now she wished he had gotten his way.

She was miserable.

He had driven her to O'Hare on Saturday morning—they were both still slightly dazed from the previous night's heady combination of drugs, bar fights, and toe-curling sex—walked her up to the security checkpoint, and wrapped his arms around her.

"It's not too late to change your mind," he said. "We can just pretend we came here for the duty-free shopping."

Much to her surprise, she felt her lower lip begin to tremble. She hoped House hadn't noticed.

"Are you _crying_?" he asked.

_Of course_.

"Shut up," she said, blinking back tear. "I'm just. . ."

But instead of making fun of her, he hugged her again, kissed the top of her head.

"I love you, you know that?" he said. Then he whispered in her ear: "Even if you are a big fat crybaby."

Her face was smooshed against his leather jacket. She wanted to crawl inside it and hide.

"I love you, too," she managed to say.

"On the bright side," he added cheerfully. "Now that we're married, if you die in a fiery crash, I'll inherit half your money!"

She laughed. He always knew just the wrong—and as a result, perfectly right—thing to say.

She walked through the security gate and then up the escalator and toward the terminal. She turned at one point and saw him standing there—not much bigger than a dot now, only recognizable from a distance because of his jacket and cane—still watching her.

She waved.

He raised his cane high above his head—waved it back.

She forced herself to keep walking.

Once she settled into her seat, she completely lost it. The tears were falling freely now.

The woman next to her, an officious looking sort in a business suit and sensible airport shoes, looked at her, slightly appalled.

"Are you . . . okay?" she asked.

Cuddy wiped her eyes, embarrassed, and gave a weak smile.

"I'm fine," she said. "I'm a newlywed and I just said goodbye to my husband."

"Oh," the woman said sympathetically. "Is he being shipped out to Afghanistan?"

"No, he's. . .driving his motorcycle back to Jersey," Cuddy said.

And the woman gave her a quizzical look.

#####

The minute she saw her mother, Rachel began giving a breathless blow-by-blow of the wedding:

"And. . .and . . then I threw the flowers and they went _allllll_ over the room . . And . . .and. . .then you looked like a princess, but you were wearing big black boots, which no one could see because the skirt was soooooo long. . ."

"I know, Rach. I was there."

But Rachel was on a roll.

"And. . . . and . . .then House got on the motorcycle and it made it a really loud noise like this—_VROOM!_— and then you went on your honeycomb."

"Honeymoon," Cuddy corrected.

"And everyone said yay, yay, yay! And then nana took me out for ice cream."

"What flavor?"

"Mint chocolate chip."

"Good call."

So yeah, Rachel's enthusiasm helped Cuddy get her mind off missing House. And she was also pleasantly surprised to find that the wedding dress was waiting for her in a box on the porch when she got home. (Score one for Walter.)

But there was still this sense of longing, a kind of physical ache.

She spoke to House twice on the phone.

"How's it going?" she asked him the first night. It was about 11 pm. He had already checked into a Motel 6 for the evening.

"It's okay," he said. "The hookers satisfy my physical needs, but not my emotional ones."

"Not funny, House," she said.

"C'mon, a _little _funny."

The next night he couldn't even bring himself to joke.

"I can't sleep," he moaned into the phone. "I miss you."

And now it was Monday. She'd have to get through this whole day—a day of well-wishers congratulating her on the wedding— without him. (The earliest he could possibly get home was tonight, she knew, long after dark.)

She was sitting in her office feeling sorry for herself, daydreaming a bit, reliving some of her favorite moments of the past week, when a strange voice came on the intercom.

"Dr. House, please report to the reception desk. Dr. House."

This was somewhat unusual: House was paged all the time, of course. But not when he wasn't in the hospital, Also, the voice on the intercom was male, and although slightly distorted by feedback, distinctly familiar.

"Dr. _Lisa_ House, please report to reception."

Cuddy burst into a huge grin, leapt up from her desk, started striding purposefully to the lobby, before she broke into a full trot.

And there he was. Obviously fresh from the road—he looked a mess, sweaty and dirty with his hair matted to his head—and leaning over the reception desk, talking into the microphone like a deejay.

Despite herself, she let out a little girlish squeal and ran into his arms.

He swung her around a bit.

"How did you get here so quickly?" she asked. She knew that the eyes of all the nurses and patients were on them—she actually heard a collective "awww"—but she didn't care.

"I drove through the night," he said. "I told you I couldn't sleep."

"You must be exhausted," she said.

"Naaa, I'm good."

They hugged again, beamed at each other—and started to head to her office.

They were so lost in their own little world, they didn't even notice Wilson, who had been standing off to the side of the lobby, with his arms folded, shaking his head.

"Get an exam room, you two," he said, grinning.

"It's Wilson!" Cuddy exclaimed. She was in such a giddy mood, she hugged him, too.

"So how was the honeymoon?" Wilson asked. "As if I have to ask."

Cuddy and House looked at each other.

"Best week of my life," they said in unison.

#######

House decided to check in on his team before going home to get some rest.

Taub and Chase were in the DDx room.

"He's back!" Taub said.

"How was the honeymoon?" Chase asked.

"I'd tell you but it's NSFW," House said.

"That good, huh?" Chase said, grinning.

House smiled slyly, grabbed the case file they were pouring over.

"So what's the story on. . .Mr. George Lipscomb here?"

Chase and Taub exchanged a look. They couldn't remember the last time House had referred to a patient by his name.

"He came to us with multiple tumors in his leg," Taub started.

"Bad news for Mr. George Lipscomb," House said.

Rather notably, he didn't add: Yeah, I can see that because I'm _looking at the scan_, you morons.

"Our first guess was liposarcomas," Chase said.

"Fair guess," House said.

Chase and Taub exchanged another look.

"But further biopsies showed the tumors spreading, presenting as advanced stage melanoma."

"I'm picking up on the word _presenting_," House said.

"That's the thing," Chase said. "The guy's riddled with tumors, but he's not sick."

"Lucky George," House said. "So what did you do next?"

"Resist the urge to call you," Taub said.

"And that's why you all still have your jobs," House said.

"We're at a bit of an impasse," Chase admitted. "Right now, Foreman is running some further bloodwork and Thirteen is treating him with chemo to shrink the tumors."

"Good work," House said, lightly slapping Chase on the back.

Chase raised his eyebrows at Taub, but said nothing.

"Just wondering," House said musingly. "Did anyone run atypical histiocytosis up the flagpole?"

Atypical histiocytosis was a rare disorder that presented as melanoma, but was actually non-cancerous—and fairly harmless.

"Of course," Chase said, grabbing the scan from House. "Fits perfectly."

"My work here is done," House said. He leaned back in the chair and looked around the room—a king surveying his kingdom. "You might want to tell Thirteen to lower that dosage on the chemo though."

Chase and Taub both popped up.

When they got to the hall, they looked at each other again.

"That was. . .weird," Chase said.

"It was more than weird. . .it was alarming," Taub said. "He called the patient by his name. He used the phrase _good work_."

"He slapped me on the back!" Chase said. "_Affectionately_."

"Do you think Cuddy is giving him methadone?" Taub asked.

"I think Cuddy is giving him. . .Cuddy," Chase said.

They both shrugged and headed down the hall.

#####

House went to Cuddy's office to share his insta-diagnosis triumph and promptly fell asleep on her couch.

She woke him up four hours later, when it was time to go home.

They drove together in her car—House said that he and his motorcycle were taking "an extended break"—and picked up some carryout from a rotisserie chicken place for dinner.

"Our first proper meal as husband and wife, and it's take out," House grumbled.

"Get used to it," Cuddy said.

House smiled. He loved when she put him in his place.

When they got home, Rachel jubilantly charged toward him, slamming into his (good) leg.

"Howse!" she said.

"Mini Cuddy," he said, picking her up. "I missed you so much!"

This, much to his great surprise, was the truth.

He put her down.

"I was a flower girl!" she said, out of the blue. (She was still in her all-wedding-all-the-time mode.)

"I know, kiddo. You were great," he said.

"And my dress had ruffles on it. And when the song played, I walked down the aisle and I threw the petals at people."

"Your aim was excellent."

Cuddy gave House an apologetic look.

"She's still a little excited about the wedding," she mouthed.

"Her and me both," House said, with a smile.

Rachel tugged at House's hand. He wasn't paying enough attention to her.

"'And 'member when everybody else drove away in a those long cars and you and mama drove away on a motorcycle?"

"That _was_ pretty gangster," House said.

"And 'member when mama had boots with her dress?"

"Rest assured, those boots were put to exceedingly good use _throughout_ the honeymoon," House said, winking at Cuddy.

She swatted him.

"And. . . and . . .'member when the man said, 'You may kiss the bride?"

"That was the best part," House said, taking Cuddy's hand.

"I agree," Cuddy said.

"I agree, too!" Rachel said, just to be agreeable.

Then she gave House a questioning look. "Jenny Eisner says you're my daddy now."

House thought it over.

"I'm . . .well, technically I'm your _step _dad, I guess. But you can still call me House, okay?"

"Okay," Rachel said, skeptically.

"You know how some kids have a mom and dad?" Cuddy offered quickly. "You have something better: A mom and House."

Rachel seemed to like that.

"A mom and House!" she said.

And then Rachel Cuddy and her mom and House sat down for their first dinner together as a real family.


End file.
